


Companionship

by ArliaDevi



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier's not a regular dad he's a cool dad, M/M, as domestic as it can get for a Witcher, gay dads raising a teenager and a horse, new dad Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22254058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArliaDevi/pseuds/ArliaDevi
Summary: In which Ciri suspects but cannot confirm.Or,Geralt and Jaskier get domestic. Well, as domestic as they can.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 512
Kudos: 12511
Collections: Epic To Read List, Favourite Fanfictions, Fics good enough to send to my sister, witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Ciri is more game Ciri than TV show Ciri.

i  
  
It’s been two months since Jaskier joined them on the road – them being Ciri and Geralt; since their group had exploded with liveliness and music and _someone else to talk to_ other than Roach. In those two months, Ciri’s quite sure Roach spoke to her than Geralt did. Don’t get her wrong, she _likes_ Geralt. But he’s not exactly an easy conversationalist.

Still, he always puts her first. The best bits of rabbit in her rabbit stew or new shoes from the shoemaker while he patches his own up with old strips of leather. So, it’s no surprise when they get to the tavern–their first tavern in a week– that Geralt throws Ciri the key to her room.

‘Jaskier and I will share.’

Ciri looks down at the key. ‘Aren’t there enough rooms?’

‘Not enough coin,’ Geralt grunts. ‘Go. Bathe. I have to discuss a vampire contract with the mayor.’

When Geralt gets back, covered in what Ciri is quite sure is intestines, they eat quietly in the corner of the inn. Jaskier plays his music, his hat out for coins. He sings well, Ciri has to admit, and there’s an entrancing quality about the way he performs, luring all eyes to him. Even Geralt’s eyes seem to wander back to Jaskier, lingering on him just long enough that Ciri manages to steal a few mouthfuls of ale.

‘Don’t think I didn’t notice that,’ Geralt mutters as Ciri slides the large stein back in place.

‘Girls in Cintra drink at ten,’ Ciri replies matter-of-factly.

‘No, they don’t.’ Geralt takes another mouthful of ale before sliding it towards Ciri. ‘Don’t let Jaskier see.’

‘Stealth training?’

Geralt rolls his eyes. ‘Sure.’

Later, as Ciri prepares for bed–not that the lump of hay and blankets in the middle of the room should be called a bed–she hears arguing through the wall. Jaskier’s voice raises an octave as he whines Geralt’s name, long and loudly. It’s not uncommon, they’ve got into more rows than Queen Calanthe had battles since the bard’s joined them on the road, and some days they spend hours alternating between bickering and ignoring each other. Even now, with a warm meal in their guts and roof over their head, they still find something to argue about. Ciri shakes her head and pulls the blankets over her shoulder.  
  


ii  
  
It’s a week later when Jaskier sneezes so loudly it spooks Roach. Geralt soothes her with a murmur, glaring at Jaskier.

‘Sorry,’ he sniffs. ‘Spring. Flowers. Ugh. My head’s a mess.’

By the time they make camp, Jaskier is shivering and pallid.

‘You’re sick,’ Geralt says.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You look horrible,’ Ciri adds, trying to be helpful.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. ‘Thank you. Really.’

Geralt presses a hand to Jaskier’s forehead. ‘Obviously not sick enough if you’re still mouthing off.’

Ciri notices the edge of Geralt’s mouth twitch as he drops his hand. ‘There’s a stream nearby. Go cool off. I’m getting dinner. Ciri, you’re in charge.’

‘What!’ Jaskier shrieks as Geralt begins to trudge off into the thick forest around them in search of their dinner. ‘She’s a child.’

‘A child who can raze a city with a scream,’ Geralt responds. ‘She’s in charge.’

Jaskier huffs, but there’s no real intention behind it but gathers his things to bathe. ‘First Roach is in charge, now a child.’

Geralt gets back before Jaskier and makes quick work of the rabbit they’re eating for dinner. He pours a little water into a kettle and lets it boil for a long while before adding crushed up flowers and a few curiosities from his backpack. Ciri watches Geralt silently from across the camp, trying to figure out the flowers he’s used and why, hoping he’ll explain before she needs to ask, but then Jaskier is trudging back to camp, dressed in a clean tunic. Still sniffing and groaning. 

He falls on his bedroll with a moan. Geralt takes the kettle off the fire and pours the tea into Jaskier’s stew bowl.

‘Drink.’

Jaskier makes a face. ‘What kind of potion you trying to force into me now, Witcher?’

Geralt touches Jaskier’s forehead again as the bard blows over the tea.

‘You’re burning. Drink it.’

Jaskier takes a slow sip. ‘Wow,’ he blanches. ‘This is disgusting.’

Geralt glowers and tips the cup back to Jaskier’s mouth. ‘All of it.’

‘Yeah all right,’ Jaskier huffs. ‘Don’t _Axii_ me into it.’

‘I’m not. I’m forcing you.’

With a sigh, Jaskier downs the rest of the tea. Geralt stays by Jaskier’s side and suddenly they’re speaking too low for Ciri to hear and Jaskier is looking at Geralt all dreamlike, and Geralt shoots an arm out to straighten him.

‘What have you done to me-,’ Jaskier slurs as he leans forward on Geralt’s body, face resting in the crook of his neck. Geralt hesitates before gently moving him off. Jaskier murmurs something Ciri can’t hear and Geralt replies something equally hushed and then Geralt places him down on the bedroll gently.

Jaskier smiles, briefly, and then he’s asleep.

Geralt turns back to the fire. His amber eyes flick towards Ciri.

‘Holy rope, elderflower and thyme treat colds in humans,’ he says. ‘Honey makes it taste better and enough Alcohest makes sure they stay out long enough for the others to take effect.’

Then, he leans forward and spoons them both a generous helping of rabbit stew.

iii

Ciri stays at camp with Jaskier and Roach–and is in charge _again_ –while Geralt takes care of a werewolf nearby. The night is silent and still. There is no wind and yet a shiver runs up Ciri’s spine. Jaskier lounges by the fire and picks at his lute.

‘Where is he?’ Ciri asks Jaskier. ‘He should be back by now.’

‘He’ll be back when the job is done,’ Jaskier says as he strums. ‘No use going after him. You’ll just get in the way. I know from experience.’

‘But I could help,’ she says.

‘You’re more help here. Protecting me,’ Jaskier says but not like he believes it. Ciri huffs and resists the urge to stamp her foot. She hates being treated like a child but acting like one is only going to ensure that continues. Jaskier gives her a meaningful look as if he sees right through her. ‘He’ll be back.’

‘But what if he’s not.’

‘Then he’s dead.’ Jaskier plucks a chord.

She is asleep before Geralt gets back to camp but wakes at the sound of Jaskier rising, of the sound of crushed forest underneath his feet, of Roach’s whinnies Geralt presses a hand to her side. 

_Are you okay?_

_I’m fine. Go back to sleep._

_Let me help you out of your armour._

_Ciri-_

_She’s asleep. She was worried about you._

_Hm._

Ciri opens her eyes. The fire is banked but still burns lowly and in the dim light she can see the outlines of their bodies pressed close.

_Your eyes–_

_They’ll wear off._

Geralt moves slightly, obstructing her vision. Jaskier brings his arms up to Geralt's neck to unfasten the buckles of his armour, but then there’s the sound of something wet – blood maybe? – and Geralt lets out a long, tired sigh.

_You’re really okay?_

_Not my first werewolf, Jas._

Ciri’s never heard call him _Jas_. It’s so loose and easy, the name falls from his mouth so naturally that all at once Ciri feels uncomfortable listening in on a conversation not meant for her. She closes her eyes and makes a show of rolling over, but if they notice her, neither say anything.

iv  
  
The winter is bitingly cold. They’re down to their last few coins. Work has been scarce. Coin scarcer. Last night they’d all shared a room in a run-down tavern after Jaskier had agreed to sing for a roof over their head and old potatoes in their stomach. On the road, it’s even worse. The land is covered in snow. Occasionally Geralt tracks a rabbit, but the meat is lean and barely feeds the three of them. Sometimes he’ll come back empty-handed, muttering that the doe he’d tracked was pregnant. They go to sleep hungry most nights.

Their empty stomachs lead to irritable heads. Geralt and Jaskier fight more often now. There are fewer bickers and more quarrels. In the longest one, they did not speak to each other for two days. Geralt remarked that it was the quietest it had been for a long time. Ciri had to agree.

They hear that Yennefer is in Oxenfurt and decide to change course. Despite the harshness of the winter, there will be coin to make in Oxenfurt from people who don’t rely on the land. It’s still a day’s ride away, so they camp off the road. Jaskier finds an old cabbage on the remains of some poor bastard who’s been mauled by wolves. A cabbage and eight marks.

Jaskier makes a stew out of the old cabbage. It’s awful. They all know it is. Still, no one says a thing.

It’s late at night when Ciri wakes to the movement of Geralt’s bedroll. He walks away from camp to piss, adjusting Roach’s blanket as he comes back. Ciri closes her eyes as his gaze sweeps over her.

‘Jaskier.’ A hushed whisper. Jaskier groans sleepily. ‘It’s freezing. Get over here.’

‘Mmkay.’

Ciri hears the rustle of bodies and Jaskier’s murmur of thanks before everything settles down again.

v

Yennefer’s gone by the time they arrive in Oxenfurt ( _Of course she is_ Geralt mutters when he hears of the news) but the day isn’t wasted: there’s a couple of Drowners harassing the edges of the city, and Jaskier finds himself a spot at a local tavern.

‘Coming then?’ Geralt asks Ciri as they prepare to part ways.

‘Geralt,’ Jaskier says sternly. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Never stopped you.’

‘I know but,’ Jaskier hesitates and looks between Ciri and Geralt. ‘Fine. I’ll go put Roach away.’

Ciri almost skips alongside Geralt as they make their way down to the shoreline. She’s ordered to stay back on the shoreline and observe, keeping mind of Geralt’s pack. The Drowners gracefully rise from the water, advancing on Geralt as he wades deeper. A flash of his sword and they fall. When he’s sure they’re all gone, he calls Ciri out into the shallows.

Ciri toes off her boots and hitches up her skirts as she wades out. Geralt has a dagger in one hand and the skull of a Drowner in the other, prying it open gruesomely.

‘Drowner’s brains,’ he says as he fishes the organ out. It’s not big – the size of Geralt’s fist. ‘Key ingredient for Swallow. Get them while you can. As soon as you run out, chances are you’ll be fucked to find one.’

Geralt grabs another Drowner head and fishes out the brain and tongue before leading Ciri back towards the shoreline.

‘Blood moss,’ he points out as Ciri puts her shoes back on. ‘Good for treating wounds. Staunches the bleeding.’

Jaskier is singing when they enter the tavern. They’re dry but no less stinking of seawater. But the stench is a mark of victory, evidence of a hard day’s work done. When Geralt offers her a mouthful of his ale, she drinks it down greedily. There’s not much to say for the taste – she doesn’t really like beer. She likes what it represents.

Jaskier finishes his song and comes over to greet them, much to the disappointment of the gathering crowd. Immediately, his face screws up. 

‘You both reek like a festering pond.’

Geralt shrugs. ‘Drowner’s smell.’

‘I have enough coin for two rooms upstairs. Go get cleaned up.’ Then, he reaches down to grab Geralt’s ale and takes a swig. ‘And don’t think I missed you giving the child your beer.’

‘I’m thirteen!’ Ciri says.

‘She’s thirteen.’ Geralt reiterates.

Jaskier huffs, exasperated. ‘Bathe. Both of you.’

Geralt rolls his eyes and finishes his beer as Jaskier sparks up another tune.

‘Come on,’ he mutters. ‘We need to brush down Roach.’

They eat dinner in the tavern while Jaskier plays away. Ciri’s lost count of how much coin he’s collected now. Geralt does a good job of pretending not to listen to him, but now and then he winces at the bard’s lyrics. Most of the songs, after all, are about Geralt.

Ciri’s about to excuse herself for a bath – the brine smell was fun for a while, but now she just feels sticky, when suddenly there’s a commotion on the other side of the tavern. Lute string twinge. Someone cries out, ‘Shut the fuck up, Witcher whore!’

Geralt rises to his feet immediately as Ciri cranes her neck to see the commotion. There’s a group of drunk men on the other side of the room, all crowding around Jaskier.

‘Now, now, fellas,’ he tries to placate them. ‘They’re just, you know, the greatest hits. I can play others if you have a request.’

One of the men sneers loudly. ‘Sounds to me like you know how to wield his silver sword.’

‘Go to your room,’ Geralt tells Ciri.

‘But-.’ Suddenly, Jaskier lets out a cry and Geralt is across the room in a flash. He catches the second fist flying towards Jaskier’s face in one hand as his other uppercuts. The drunk man heaves, tips forward, and vomits out onto the floor.

Another comes at him and Geralt catches him by the collar. Jaskier finds Ciri and takes her by the shoulders.

‘Come on, we should go upstairs.’

She doesn’t want to go upstairs. She wants to _watch_.

‘Fuck you,’ the drunken man wheezes as he fights against Geralt’s grip. ‘Get your filthy hands off me, Witcher.’

Ciri watches as Geralt tosses the drunken man out the door and into the mud and shit by the horse posts. The crowd cheer drunk off ale and the action. The barmaid straightens out the rest of the crew, hauling the vomiting man to his feet and out the door. A few of the others spit at Geralt as they file out of the tavern.

Jaskier cradles a sore as the barmaid gives them another round, on the house. There’s a foul mood prickling off Geralt; Ciri doesn’t bother asking him for a sip, but she needs to know–

‘Why did they spit at you?’

‘Because they don’t like me,’ Geralt replies reluctantly. He pauses, clarifies. ‘What I am.’

‘So they hurt Jaskier?’ Ciri asks and catches Jaskier’s wary glance at Geralt.

‘Because they were too shit scared to fight me.’

She turns to Jaskier now. ‘Why did they call you the-,’

‘O _kay_ , a lot of questions for tonight,’ Jaskier cries suddenly with a nervous laugh. ‘Would you look at the time. It’s late. Time for bed.’

He swallows another mouthful of his beer before sliding the stein towards Geralt and corrals Ciri from her seat. She’s thirteen. She’s been travelling with them long enough to know all the bad words and what they mean–hell, half of all words Geralt speaks are the bad words. She knows what _whore_ means. But she doesn’t know why they’d call Jaskier such a thing, especially when he can barely wield a dagger, let alone a silver sword of his own.

Jaskier sees Ciri to her room. His, of course, is next door. ‘Best to get some rest. We’re back on the road tomorrow if Yennefer doesn’t show up.’

‘What about Geralt?’

Jaskier shrugs. ‘He’s fine. Just drowning his feelings. Or whatever things Witchers have in place of them.’

Eight months on the road with Geralt, now six with Jaskier, and she knows that Witcher’s have feelings. Muted ones. Badly communicated ones. But feelings none-the-less. She hears Geralt comes up the stairs not thirty minutes later. His gate his staggered from the booze but she knows it’s him. The walls of the tavern are thin, even if they keep their voices down low.

_What happened to not getting involved in the squabbles of men?_

_Seems I do. All of the time._

A pause.

_I should have killed him._

_Not in front of Ciri, Geralt. Ouch, it still stings. Be gentle._

_Hm. I have a salve in my backpack. Take off your clothes._

_Always the romantic._

Their hushed voices eventually die down like the flames in her fireplace and Ciri drifts to sleep.

vi

It’s a cold spring morning when Ciri wakes up before both Jaskier and Geralt. Even Roach is still asleep, lying on her side underneath a tree, her reigns looped around one of the branches. Ciri wonders if even if she wasn’t tethered, would she walk off?

Shuffling out of her bedroll, Ciri straightens out her clothing and casts an eye across the campsite. Geralt and Jaskier are sleeping against each other like they did that winter’s night. Geralt’s arm is draped over Jaskier’s hip. The blanket’s been tossed of Geralt during the night, revealing his bare chest. The early morning light catches his scars.

She leaves the campsite to relieve herself nearby. While early spring still kept some of the winter’s bite, it hadn’t been a particularly cold night.

And then the words of the drunken fool come back to her, as fresh as the day they were spoken, despite it being almost a month ago. She recalls the late-night arguments, the heady look in Jaskier’s eyes as he’d succumbed to Geralt’s tonic, the gentle words and touches she’s brushed off as concern, and the unspoken agreement that whenever they’re in a tavern, Ciri gets a room to herself and they share–despite since their few days in Oxenfurt, their purses have been heavy with coin.

When she gets back to camp, Geralt is awake. His armour his back on. His bedroll is packed away. The only evidence of Ciri having seen what she saw is the way Jaskier’s body is peculiarly curled on his bedroll, like how scales of a fish slip perfectly against one another.

Geralt nudges Jaskier with the toe of his boot. ‘Up.’

vii

Ciri quickly realises that Jaskier doesn’t like Yennefer. He bristles at her tone and Yennefer revels in his annoyance. She’s gorgeous and Jaskier’s jealous. Even Ciri can see this as Yennefer welcomes Geralt into her lavish Ovenfurt apartment.

‘Glad to have found you at home,’ Jaskier mutters. ‘For once.’

‘Been busy,’ Yennefer shrugs. ‘Drink?’

They don’t so much catch up as Yennefer tells Geralt exactly what she thinks, the moment she thinks it, whether he’ll like it or not. And he doesn’t like being told he’ll have to travel to Skellige. At least, Ciri thinks, she’ll get a straight answer out of Yennefer. She just as to get the witch alone.

It happens just after dinner. Geralt is outside brushing down Roach and Jaskier is letting himself turn into a prune in the bathtub upstairs. Ciri approaches Yennefer just as she finishes writing a letter and says, ‘May I ask you something?’

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. ‘You just did.’

She hesitates, unsure how to phrase it and worried about being rebuked. It’s not her business, of course. Still.

‘What are they to each other?’

Yennefer’s face cracks into a smile. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, child.’

viii

They run into trouble just outside of Brugge. A contract on a Griffin goes awry. It swoops down low and diverts its course at the last second. Geralt ducks and rolls. Jaskier doesn’t.

The tear in the flesh of his back is deep, but Geralt says it’s missed his spine. Still, it doesn’t placate Ciri’s worry as Jaskier screeches and cries in Geralt’s arms until he finally, _finally_ uses _Axii_ to knock him out and take him back to camp.

Jaskier bleeds all over Geralt’s bedroll as Geralt makes fast work of stitching up the wound. It doesn’t take long. Ciri helps by giving Geralt things as he needs them – a warm cloth, a hot needle, blood moss, salve to rub on the bloody stitches that now run jaggedly down three inches of Jaskier’s left shoulder. Eventually, he rolls Jaskier up into the sleeping bag and drinks a long guzzle of whatever liquid is in his flask. Then, he hands it to Ciri.

‘Here.’

Ciri takes the flask apprehensively. It mustn’t be potions because Geralt’s eyes are clear and amber and wild.

‘It’s a Redanian spirit. It’ll help you sleep.’

Anything to get the sound of Jaskier’s scream out of her head. Ciri takes a long gulp and it burns all the way down. She coughs as Geralt takes his flask back.

‘Will he be okay?’

‘He’ll be fine. The cut wasn’t as deep as I’d feared.’

‘He’s not going to die?’ she looks down at the bedroll. It’s stained with blood.

‘Not if I can help it.’

Jaskier groans a little between them and begins to stir. Geralt’s eyes light up as me makes a hand signal and then Jaskier is peaceful again.

‘ _Axii,’_ he explains to her unspoken question. ‘Manipulates the mind. Calms down humans and beasts alike. In battle, it could make a Manticore fight alongside you. Like this,’ he motions to Jaskier. ‘You can use it to take away the pain.’

He takes another sip from his flask and looks to Ciri. ‘You good?’

Ciri nods apprehensively. ‘Yes.’

‘Get some rest. We need to get him to Brugge tomorrow.’

Ciri slides into her bedroll. They haven’t eaten tonight, but it’s no matter. She couldn’t stomach it anyway and the spirits feel warm and heavy in her belly.

It’s not a long way to Brugge and Jaskier rides on Roach, pressed against Geralt’s chest. When they arrive, Geralt manages to negotiate for two rooms at the local Inn. If the Innkeeper feels sorry for Jaskier, the bloodied and unconscious mess in Geralt’s arms, he certainly doesn’t reduce his price. Occasionally he stirs, but Geralt does something to silence him again, feeds him a little potion, casts magic on him.

‘It’s easier this way,’ he says to Ciri’s silent question.

Jaskier wakes up in the late afternoon, groaning. Ciri’s immediately by his side.

‘You’re awake.’

‘Am I?’ Jaskier mutters. ‘Ah, fuck, my shoulder.’

‘The Griffon snared you.’

Jaskier groans and adjusts against the hay mattress. ‘Yes, of course, that beast.’ His eyes search the room. ‘Geralt?’

‘With Roach downstairs,’ she says. ‘He told me to give you water if you woke up, do you want some?’

‘Not just yet, thank you, Ciri.’

Ciri sits by his bedside as Jaskier shifts and tries to get comfortable.

‘He was worried about you, you know,’ she says after a long while. ‘I could tell.’

Jaskier lets out a half-laugh. ‘Good, maybe he’ll treat me a little better,’ but there’s no real malice in it.

When Geralt appears at the doorway ten minutes later, Ciri feels it best that she leave them alone. Closing the door behind her, she hears Jakier’s loud moan as he’s shifted on the bed.

_Fuck, Geralt, my head. What did you Axii me into brain trauma?_

_I don’t think that’s possible._

Ciri knows she should keep going. It’s wrong to listen in on them like this. Geralt probably knows. But she can’t make herself move.

 _You need to eat. You’ve been out almost a day._ Steps come toward the door. Ciri panics. She's going to get caught listening in, she's going to-

_Wait. Stay here a moment. I’m not hungry._

The boots stop. Turn. Walk back to the bed.

 _Sit down_ Jaskier again. There's a shuffle. Ciri presumes Geralt sits.

_My one thought when that Griffin swooped was that I was going to die without telling you that I love you._

_Your one thought when the Griffin swooped should have been to duck and roll._

_I’m trying to do a thing here._

_I can see that._

_You’ve always been a man of few words, I get it. I don’t expect you to tell me it back, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get to hear it._

_Jaskier–_

_I almost died, Geralt. Let me tell you I love you._

_You didn’t almost die._

_I was slashed open by a Griffin. I thought it had torn my arm off!_

_At worst, it’s a deep scratch._

_You’re ridiculous!_

Then Ciri hears nothing and then a moan and perhaps Geralt is moving Jaskier again–

_Oh for god’s sake, get in the bed, Geralt._

_Ciri?_

_She’s downstairs. Probably playing Gwent. Leave her. Get in the bed._

The sound of boots hitting the floor, not in movement but to be discarded is followed by the sound of Geralt’s swords being thrown to the ground, then what Ciri presumes is his breastplate.

Suddenly a game of Gwent doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the incredible response to the first chapter; forgive me, I couldn't leave the characters and I've stretched their adventures out into two more chapters. Hope that's okay.

ix

They arrive at the village an hour before the bandits descend.

Rumour has it they ride with a dragon. The alderman promises Geralt a tidy sum if he can dispatch them. Geralt accepts, and Ciri feels Jaskier’s hand on her shoulder.

‘This won’t take long,’ Geralt says as the stableboy secures Roach.

‘Is it really a dragon?’ Ciri asks. She can hear horses, the cry of men, growing closer. The villagers usher the children inside the Inn.

Geralt hums. It’s not really an answer. ‘Get inside. Now.’

Jaskier leads her inside the crowded Inn as Geralt slicks up his sword with oil and waits. Jaskier closes the door to the Inn, bars it with a table and a stool and ushers Ciri away from the window. She can hear them now, the bandits. The clash of steel and swords and the cry of a mighty beast. Perhaps there really is a dragon. 

Jaskier pushes Ciri down behind the bar and presses his body against her. He smells like sweat and dirt, and Ciri remembers they’ve spent the past six nights camping and they’d all thought getting to this village would lead to some relief. His body is warm where it is pressed against Ciri, but she can’t ignore the chattering of his jaw.

‘He’s going to be okay,’ Ciri takes his hand gently.

Jaskier swallows nervously. Laughs a little. ‘You know I’m supposed to be the one comforting you.’

Jaskier has no special powers except for the ones he holds over the Witcher, which he wields fairly and rarely ever abuses. Ciri wonders if he’s aware he has the powers at all: if he knows that the Witcher bends to his whims easier than others, that his words turn his hard gazes soft.

Outside, a cry. A scream of pain. Ciri tries to block out the noise and buries her head into Jaskier’s shoulder. A hand comes up to smooth over her hair as Jaskier hums low in his throat like a parent would soothe a child, and while Ciri may be coming up to her fourteenth birthday, warmth blooms deep in her stomach and she relaxes into his embrace. 

It’s a long while later when the door to the Inn swings open. The building is dark, the sun is dipping below the horizon and the air is hot with sour beer and perspiration. Jaskier looks over the bar and cries, ‘Geralt!’

They escape from behind the bar, sweeping out onto the street to survey the damage. He lays a hand on the alderman’s shoulder, and the man startles at the sight of him.

‘My coin,’ he demands.

‘Yes, yes,’ the Alderman splutters. ‘I’ll get you what is owed.’

Ciri watches as Jaskier expertly weaves his way between them, his hands pressing to Geralt’s chest.

‘We’ll collect the coin in a moment, let me check you’re okay,’ he says and the Alderman scampers out the door. Someone lights a torch and the light hits Geralt’s face, bloodied and sweat-soaked and –

‘Your eyes,’ Ciri stammers. ‘Your face.’

Geralt opens his mouth to respond, but then Jaskier says, ‘Geralt, your side.’

‘Arrow,’ he grunts and Ciri sees the small hole in his armour. ‘It’s not deep.’

Ciri can’t stop looking at his face, at the bright veins against his pale skin, the darkness that envelops his eyes. She knows that his potions make him stronger, knows that there are side effects–

Jaskier’s not scared as his hands map over his body, and Ciri knows – _knows_ – there’s no reason to be scared of him, but she can’t help the reaction of her body, can’t stop the clenching of her stomach, because even though she knows this is the same Geralt who calls Jaskier over to _cuddle_ in the middle of the night when he thinks she’s asleep, the same Geralt who slips her beer when Jaskier isn’t looking, he doesn’t _look_ like the same Geralt.

‘It’s fine,’ Geralt says as he gently brushes him off. ‘I need a bath.’

And then he looks at Ciri – but _look_ s is a loose word because it’s only with the tilt of his chin that Ciri realises his blown-out gaze has fallen to her.

‘Ciri.’ He adds her name for benefit. ‘You good?’

She swallows down the cotton that coats her mouth. ‘Yeah.’

Geralt nods in satisfaction and then takes the stairs to their room. Just the one room tonight – the Inn is small and putting up a number of families made homeless by the very same bandits Geralt’s just decimated.

Ciri sticks close to Jaskier, watches as he arranges for Geralt’s bath – _the man just mowed down twenty bandits and a wyvern, if you could give him an ale as you prepare it, he’ll be much obliged –_ and chases Geralt’s coin – _the Witcher took down a dragon, is that not worth giving his steed a little extra care? -_ and then to the stableman – _the white mare would do us fine if it pleases you. I understand from the Witcher she is a war prize unless previously claimed –_ and then finally to the Innkeeper, who gives them a free meal each and takes a hot plate up to Geralt who Jaskier assures is _still_ in the bath, and it’s really best to leave him.

Jaskier is eating a boiled potato when Ciri says, ‘Jaskier, um,’ she looks at the bubbles rising in Jaskier’s beer. ‘His… face.’

‘Yes, what about it?’ Jaskier asks as he takes a long sip of his beer.’

‘I mean his eyes.’

‘Oh,’ Jaskier smiles a little. ‘His Witcher face can be a little scary, I know. It’s probably gone by now. Finish your meal. How good is this mutton? At least, I think it’s mutton. Whatever it is, it’s better than the rabbit from a few nights ago, right?’

Jaskier tries to make small talk over dinner, but Ciri can’t focus. She eats quietly and then Jaskier says, ‘Well, I think these folks deserve a little music, don’t you?’ A pause. ‘You should get some rest, Ciri, it’s been a long day.’

She follows Jaskier up to the room to retrieve his lute. Geralt is sitting by the fire, hair dripping, with a half-drunk stein as he grinds flowers into a paste.

‘You look better,’ Jaskier says with a smile and grabs his lute from the corner, where it rests with Grealt’s swords. ‘Thought I’d give these people something to be happy about.’

‘Thought you’d pull your weight, more like,’ Geralt says but there’s no bite in it. Jaskier ruffles his hair in response, and Geralt half-heartedly tries to reach out and swipe at him, but Jaskier is surprisingly quick when he wants to be.

‘Back later,’ he says fleetingly. ‘Be good.'

Ciri lingers by the doorway as Geralt raises his beer to her as an invitation.

She hesitates. His eyes are bright amber again.

‘You good?’ he asks.

She nods. ‘Your eyes. They’re back to normal.’

He lowers the beer, runs a hand over his face. ‘Sorry if they scared you.’

‘Do they hurt?’

‘Not really.’

She takes a step forward, settles by the fire. Geralt doesn’t move. His hair drips wet patches onto his cream linen shirt.

‘Did it hurt?’ she says. ‘To…’

He looks to the fire and a muscle in his jawline twinges. ‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He takes a small amount of salve from the bowl and places it on a small wound in his side. It’s red and oozing blood onto Geralt’s dark pants. ‘You were afraid of me today.’

‘I wasn’t-,’

He gives her a look. _Don’t lie_.

‘I’d never seen you like that,’ she says. ‘I was afraid for a moment. I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to be sorry,’ he replies. ‘Fear is a natural instinct. You should question everything you encounter, even if it wears the skin of someone you know.’

A shiver runs down her spine. ‘But Jaskier-,’

‘Jaskier moves first, speaks first but he thinks later,’ Geralt replies. ‘Jaskier has the survival instincts of someone who has never been in fear for their life. Learn many things from Jaskier, but not that.'

A long silence settles between them. Geralt gently moves the stein towards Ciri.

‘Drink it,’ he mutters.

She grabs it and sips gingerly. ‘Don’t you worry about him?’ she asks after a long moment.

Geralt lets out a loose sigh and throws another log into the flames. ‘Often.’

x

‘You’re being ridiculous, stop moving,’ Jaskier tells him.

‘Leave it, Jaskier,’ Geralt snaps back.

Ciri sits by the fire, silently watching the commotion.

‘Come on, don’t you trust me?’ Jaskier brandishes the blade like a threat. Geralt looks at him apprehensively.

‘We’re three days away from a village,’ Geralt brushes him off. ‘I’ll see to it then.’

‘Or I can do it now,’ Jaskier insists. ‘Come on, it’s like I don’t even recognise you.’

It’s probably been a month since Geralt shaved and his beard is almost three inches long, and all white. It makes him look older, that’s for sure. Fearsome, Ciri thinks.

 _Unkempt_ , Jaskier corrects.

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘With a blade? No.’ Geralt replies. ‘With my life? Also no.’

Jaskier turns back to Ciri. ‘Cirilla, tell Geralt he’s being needlessly irritating and that I am an expert barber. Didn’t I cut your hair last week?’

‘You did cut my hair last week,’ Ciri replies evenly.

‘And didn’t I do a good job?’

‘It was adequate,’ she considers. ‘My hair is long. All one length.’

‘And I braided it so well,’ Jaskier adds. ‘It looked so sweet.’

Geralt takes the momentary lapse in concentration to snatch the razor from Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier cries out a little but then the drama settles down, and they go to sleep.

In the morning, Ciri wakes up to find Geralt packing up the camp. The sun has crested the horizon but not the canopy of the forest, and mist hangs around them. Jaskier is still sleeping in his bedroll, back turned to the fire. Geralt turns to stir the fire back up for breakfast. His hair is damp around his shoulders, and his face is fresh and shaved clean.

xi

  
The pain isn’t blinding. Seriously, if Jaskier can handle being sliced by a Griffin and Geralt can take down eight Drowners simultaneously, then she can handle _this._ The ache is nothing compared to their pain.

Ciri takes another drink from her waterskin, mouth try and fuzzy. Ahead, Jaskier is strumming on his lute, trying to compose a new song about lubberkins since Geralt has explained how a lubberkin was created over the fire last night. Ciri can’t fathom the amount of pain something so little must endure becoming a botchling. Geralt is unsure if they even feel pain. Inflict it, sure. But feel? The jury’s out.

Muscle ripples through her stomach, eliciting a sharp gasp. Above her, Geralt looks down from Roach. It’s the middle of the day and they haven’t stopped for lunch yet. She feels strangely weak, despite having a decent breakfast at the last campsite.

Geralt eyes her suspiciously and she almost snaps at him to mind his own business. Jaskier’s lute twinges out of tune and Geralt stops the horse.

‘Lunch,’ he says, gaze still fixed on her. He’s suspicious, and Ciri thinks a question sits on the edge of his tongue. Perhaps the ground will crack and swallow her whole.

They’re collecting kindling for the small fire when Jaskier and Ciri stumble upon a stream, only a few hundred metres off the side of the road. Jaskier brings back clean water for Roach and Geralt steals a few cups of water to boil the eggs.

‘I need to-,’

They both turn to her.

‘I, um-,’

Jaskier frowns. ‘Is everything okay, Ciri?’

‘I just have to…,’ she clears her throat. ‘I’m going to the stream to wash my hands. I’ll be back in a moment.’

‘Oh, good idea, I’ll come with you,’ Jaskier grins and steps forward. Geralt shoots out an arm, holding him back.

‘Jaskier, help me with this,’ though it’s not immediately clear what _this_ is, he nods at Ciri to continue.

Jaskier protests but Ciri can’t hear Geralt’s reply as she disappears into the scrubland.

The water is cool as she washes out the bloody rag into the stream, watching the flow of the water take the stain away. Quickly, she tears another strip from her petticoat and wraps the cotton into a ball. It’s not a sustainable solution; eventually, she’ll have no petticoat left. But she also has no money, and she can’t ask Geralt for the money without him asking what’s it for, and Jaskier would be even worse –

‘Ciri?’ It’s Jaskier. A branch snaps. ‘Ciri?’

 _Shit._ ‘I’m coming!’

She stuffs the cotton against herself and scrambles back to camp.

\---

  
They cross the border between Temeria and Redania that afternoon and Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief.

‘Ah, home!’ he sighs, though the muddy road on the other side of the invisible border looks just the same as this side.

Ciri thinks of her home further south and wonders what the castle looks like now; if the village around is still standing. Nilfgaardians take no prisoners, that much she knows. If anyone knows what her Kingdom looks like now, it’s Geralt, but she hasn’t the heart to ask him.

Geralt’s also been watching her all afternoon. Not constantly, and not to be rude, but more than he used to. Sometimes she looks up to see him watching her and knows that he sees her watching him watching her, but then his gaze lazily turns back to the road, or to Jaskier, or to the sky. She finds it strange he doesn’t try to hide that he’s watching her.

Another ripple of pain.

‘You’re injured.’

Ciri jumps. Roach has slowed, so now they’re walking pace-by-pace, the steady sway of the mare beside her. Geralt is looking down at her, all amber eyes and his mouth a thin, tight line. 

‘No, I’m fine.’

Roach stops. Geralt dismounts.

‘She’s a smoother ride,’ he says and holds out a hand.

Ciri looks between his hand and Roach’s saddle. Ahead, Jaskier is deep in the third verse trying to rhyme something with hand. Sand? _Land?_

Ciri looks at the animal nervously. Roach is a tricky mare and Ciri’s still getting to know her quirks. ‘Will she let me?’

‘If I wish,’ he says. ‘You’re obviously in pain.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘So you admit it.’

‘Huh?’

‘You’re in pain.’

‘ _I’m fine.’_

Geralt looks at her like he’s not going to go around in circles like this, not when he’s quickly reaching his daily speaking quota and he may have to tell Jaskier off before the day is done yet.

With a sigh, Ciri takes Geralt’s gloved hand and hoists herself up into Roach’s saddle. The leather is warm and feels like butter between her thighs, but then something like lead settles into her stomach when she realises there are but a few layers between her and an accident that certainly will not come out of leather. Awkwardly she shoves the tattered hem of her petticoat between her thighs.

Geralt spurs the mare on and they begin to catch up to Jaskier, who has continued on, engrossed in song. They ride in silence for a long while, Geralt holding Roach’s reigns until finally, he says, ‘There’s no honour in it, Ciri.’

‘In what?’ she squeaks. Her face is hot.

‘Your pain is no less valid than anyone else’s.’

A deep shame settles over her. ‘How can you say that?’ she seethes. ‘Jaskier was attacked by a Griffin. You’ve got hundreds of scars.’

‘Dozens,’ he corrects.

Ciri wonders how he would know – perhaps someone had counted then all, numbered each scar that littered his entire body. A lute string twinges as if in answer.

‘Pain is communication, Ciri. Your body tells you what it needs.’ Geralt is about to say something else, but then Roach sneezes and the noise makes Jaskier turn.

‘You let _Ciri_ ride Roach!’ cries Jaskier. He’s stopped in his tracks now, letting them catch up. Geralt nudges his shoulder to keep moving as they pass.

‘She’s feeling unwell,’ Geralt answers.

‘She’s feeling unwell,’ he imitates badly as he scampers to catch up. ‘I’m sorry Ciri, I mean no offence, but _I_ had to walk when I was getting blisters on blisters.’

_Your pain is no less valid than anyone else’s._

‘Ignore him,’ Geralt tells Ciri. ‘He’ll tire himself out. And he refused to wear the appropriate shoes.’

‘And that time when I fell down a flight of stairs and sprained my ankle.’

‘He was drunk,’ Geralt tells Ciri, again.

‘And that time you made me walk through a rushing river.’

‘He hadn’t had a bath for three days.’ Again, to Ciri. ‘It was the lesser of two evils.’

‘Neither had you!’

‘Leather is uncomfortable when wet.’

Jaskier groans in frustration and stamps forward a few paces before kicking at a rock.

\---

They arrive at the town a few hours later and stop outside the Inn. Geralt helps Ciri dismount Roach and as she does so, presses a few coins into her hand. Behind him, Jaskier is checking out contracts on the local notice board.

‘Geralt!’ he calls. ‘There’s a notice here to take care of a moonwraith! You could do that!’

Geralt ignores him and crowds in close to Ciri. ‘Buy what you need. The apothecary should help,’ he tells her. ‘Be back at the Inn by sundown.’

‘Geralt! Moonwraith!’ Jaskier insists.

Geralt sighs and turns to Jaskier. ‘Yes, Jas, I can hear you.’ A hand pushes Ciri gently on her way. ‘I’ll distract him for a bit, lest he pesters you.’

Later, when Ciri is fed and dressed and in bed, she hears Jaskier on the other side of the wall.

_What’s going on with Ciri, Geralt?_

His tone is frank. To the point.

_Nothing._

_Don’t make me the idiot. You let her ride Roach._

A pause _._

_Drop it, Jaskier._

_Why aren’t you more concerned? Humans are fragile you know, one little sniffle and then whump, we’re out. Like a candle. Extinguished._

_Watch I don’t extinguish you._

_You should have said ‘watch I don’t blow you out’, that would have been funnier. I could have responded in a witty, dirty fashion, you know, as I do. As you like._

_Hm._

_Seriously, you’re not going to tell me?_

_She’s a thirteen-year-old girl, Jaskier. Work it out for yourself._

A pause. Ciri’s face feels hot.

_Isn’t there… like a potion or something that could help her?_

_Surprisingly, they don’t cover menstruation potions at Kaer Morhen._

_Maybe we ask Yennefer to talk to her. You know, woman-on-woman._

_Great idea. Yennefer had her uterus ripped out when she was sixteen and pines to be with child._

_Fuck._

_I’ve spoken to her about it._

_Great, so now we have to deal with emotional scarring._

_She’s not a child, Jaskier. It’s likely not her first time._

_But we should be there. To support her. You know, give her the birds and the bees talk._

_You do that._

_Ugh, Geralt!_

xii  
  
Two weeks later and they’ve killed too many Drowners to count, a moonwraith and a cured a Striga. The Striga cure is particularly hard on Geralt. He spends two days recovering from his injuries and the sheer exhaustion of fighting a Striga all night. Their rooms are paid for in town, and though there’s enough coin for three – seeing as it’s not their coin – Jaskier and Geralt still insist (perhaps insist is too hard of a word here, rather they try to fall into it naturally without arousing suspicion) on sharing. Ciri supposes it’s perhaps the only time they get to themselves, without her.

She is naïve perhaps, but she is not dumb. Cintra had sheltered her from the harshness of everyday life, yes, but she knew what love was. She’d seen it between her grandmother and Eist, her mother and father.

Geralt and Jaskier are obviously in love.

At first, she had thought it was simply a brotherly bond, a deep friendship and she supposes it she was right for a while. Perhaps it had been, and she does not know when things changed, only that they did change. And now they’re very obviously in love.

And it’s not that they’re trying to hide it from her, but Ciri can tell they’re careful how they act. Occasionally, they speak in their own kind of language full of hidden meanings, cast loaded glances to each other, seem to agree on something – like whether to make camp or to tell Ciri to go to bed – telepathically. They’re not exactly finishing each other’s sentences, but Jaskier can decode Geralt’s monotonous grunts and hums as an agreement or disagreement to his question, even when they sound _exactly the same_.

She watches as Jaskier gives Geralt the deer leg he can’t finish, and in return, Geralt buys him a little polish for his lute in the next town. They are small things. She still hears their whispered conversations through the too-thin walls of the Inn (seriously, they must know she can hear them)–

_Geralt, you absolute brute, I only bought that shirt last month, you fucking barbarian. You’ve ruined it!_

Geralt’s laughter rolls across the floorboards, uncharacteristically loud and joyful.

_Seriously. I hope you’re happy with yourself._

_Get over here, Jaskier._

_Fuck you._

_That was the goal._

She almost can’t look at them the next morning as they set out on the road. Today, Jaskier’s wearing a green tunic with tan pants. She knows the tan shirt that goes with it, and normally Jaskier is prudent to match his clothing.

The thing is, Jaskier can mend his own clothes. He’s done it countless times. Even mended some of Ciri’s or Geralt’s cotton tunics when they get in a pinch. So Ciri wonders exactly what state the shirt had to have been for it to not be resuscitated. And that is where she gets an idea.

Being on the road is mostly boring. Jaskier and Geralt tease each other to pass the time. Ciri thinks it’s time she joined in.

‘Jaskier, your pants don’t match your shirt.’ It’s an innocent observation.

Jaskier turns to her. ‘Hmm?’

Geralt pretends he’s not listening, but Ciri sees the slight motion of his head towards the conversation.

‘Why aren’t you wearing the shirt that came with the pants?’ she clarifies. ‘You got them made together, didn’t you?’

Jaskier laughs nervously. ‘Ah, I think I’m, um, going to try a new style. Besides, that shirt got… um, caught on a nail. Ripped terribly.’

‘Really?’ Ciri hums. ‘And you couldn’t fix it? You fixed a hole in my coat recently, don’t you remember.’

‘Well, no,’ Jaskier laughs nervously. ‘Geralt, you were there. Tell her how it got ruined. You know, by the nail.’

Geralt looks like he’s biting back a grin. ‘Jaskier’s shirt got caught on a nail. It ripped.’

She eyes them both suspiciously. ‘So that’s what all that commotion was last night then.’

‘C-commotion?’ Jaskier clears his throat.

‘Yes, when you tore your shirt, I heard you yell so loudly.’

Geralt snorts.

‘Yes well,’ Jaskier mutters. His face, against the emerald silks of his shirt, is bright red. ‘I was quite upset. Clothes like that cost a lot of coin. The _nail_ should have never been there in the first place.’

‘Perhaps the nail should have been hammered further into the wall,’ suggest Geralt.

Jaskier chokes on something. Air, maybe. ‘ _Perhaps_ the nail should learn not to get caught on things so that those things rip.’

‘Perhaps the shirt should be more careful around nails,’ Geralt replies. ‘Perhaps the shirt could have taken itself off, rather than letting the nail rip it.’

‘The shirt will not make that mistake again,’ Jaskier squawks.

‘The shirt should have expected a nail after it arrived at the Inn,’ Geralt says. ‘Inns have nails. They’re made of wood.’

‘Well, this particular _nail_ won’t be tearing any more shirts any time soon,’ Jaskier huffs and stalks forward. Geralt sighs and looks to Ciri.

‘You started that.’

‘I just commented on his choice of clothes,’ Ciri shrugs.

Geralt gives her a stern look and finally, Ciri thinks she’s starting to figure out his looks. This one says _you know exactly what you did_.

xiii

She doesn’t need to listen through the wall to hear Geralt and Jaskier bicker because they’re right here, standing over her

_Did you secure another few days here?_

_Yes. Two more nights._

_What if she’s not well after that?_

A hand on her forehead.

_Geralt, she’s hot again._

_Fuck._

A while later-

‘Ciri?’

It’s Geralt by her bedside.

She groans weakly.

‘Drink the tea,’ he insists and then something luke-warm is at her lips and she drinks as much of it as she can. Her body is cold, slick with sweat. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Awful,’ she grits out.

‘The fever’s broken,’ he says. ‘Take another sip.’

She finishes the small cup. It tastes awful, like weeds and dirt and a mouthful of horsehair.

Her hand escapes from between the blankets to find Geralt’s hand, but instead, she feels his stubble, the scar of his cheek.

‘Is that the same thing you gave Jaskier that time?’ she mutters.

He chuckles gently. Touches her hand. ‘Similar.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Downstairs. Performing,’ he murmurs. ‘He’ll be back in a little while.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she groans. ‘I know I’m keeping you here.’

‘You’re not a burden, Ciri,’ he insists. ‘We do not journey onward until you’re fit to do so.’

She opens her eyes, but it takes so much effort, and Geralt is all bleary anyway, so she closes them again.

‘Am I close to death?’ she asks gently. ‘Be honest.’

‘You’ll be fine, Ciri,’ he says. ‘That’s very dramatic. Jaskier is a bad influence on you.’

She laughs, coughs a little and eases her hand down. Geralt covers it with his own.

‘I was thinking,’ he continues. ‘When you’re better, we travel north. Winter is coming and we should go back to Kaer Morhen, it’s only a week to the base of the mountains and two days after that.’

She smiles weakly. ‘You grew up there?’

Ciri feels his thumb ghost over her knuckles. ‘Didn’t have much of a childhood, but it’s the only place that feels like home.’

‘I’d like to go,’ she says. ‘When I’m better.’

Geralt squeezes her fingers. ‘When you’re better.’


	3. Chapter 3

xiv

Ciri listens as Geralt and Jaskier talk lowly by the fire. There’s a map of the continent drawn between their legs, and Geralt’s finger is hovering between Belhaven and Toussaint.

_I’ll meet you in Visima; do not wait longer than a week_

_If you’re not there-_

_We’ll be there._

_But otherwise-_

_Then head north to Kaer Morhen. I wrote ahead to expect us._

_Us?_

The word lingers between them. Ciri looks up from her sketchbook, where she’s trying to capture the slope of their bodies and the fondness of their gaze on paper.

The annual bardic tournament is less than a month away, this year held in Beauclair and Jaskier has a title to defend. It would besmirch his name _not_ to attend but Geralt has rather pressing business for a man named Vesemir on Skellige, so when they arrive in Brugge, they all agree to part ways. 

‘Need to get some supplies,’ he tells the two of them as they eat a late lunch in the Inn. ‘Be back later. Stay out of trouble.’

Jaskier decides a little practice won’t do him any harm and sets up to play in the Inn. Ciri sits and listens, but eventually pulls out her notebook to sketch the way Jaskier leans over his instrument, the way he cradles it in his hands. She’s supposed to be practising her Nilfgaardian because Jaskier speaks it fluently and it’ll most likely get her out of trouble at one time or another, but there’s a bitterness of learning the language of the conquerors, of those who slaughtered her kin, so her sentences trail off and become sketches of Roach, doe-eyed with long eyelashes.

Geralt slides into the seat beside her, unnoticed, and takes a glimpse at the notebook.

‘That’s good,’ he says and glances up to Jaskier. Ciri shuts her notebook quickly, startled at the sudden intrusion.

Geralt tuts at her obvious surprise.

‘I know, I need to stay alert,’ she says at his dissatisfaction. ‘But how do I know you’re not a doppler in disguise.’

Geralt rolls his eyes. ‘How could I prove such a thing?’

‘Exactly what a doppler would say,’ she replies matter-of-factly. ‘Gwent?’

Geralt shrugs and takes out his deck of cards.

‘Ah-ha!’ Ciri cries. ‘A doppler wouldn’t have your deck of cards, would they? Unless they took your clothes and you’re lying naked somewhere.’

‘A charming thought,’ Jaskier says as he crosses the floor and Ciri doesn’t miss the way Geralt’s cheeks go just a little pink. A doppler wouldn’t blush, she thinks. Sure, they’d have the memories to recognise Jaskier, but surely not the _feelings_ to blush.

The other man nudges Ciri over. ‘I ordered dinner. Get everything you need?’

‘Almost,’ Geralt replies as he draws ten cards from his deck. Ciri does the same. She’s not got as complex a deck as Geralt’s, but she’s still managed to beat him a few times when he has a bad hand. Jaskier watches as he waits for the food, slightly bored. Geralt wins the first round, Ciri the second, and then the game is promptly forgotten as dinner is set in front of them. It’s nice, she thinks, just to spend time playing games for once. Geralt is in good spirits when Jaskier goes to play again, and suddenly the night is late and Ciri’s eyes feel heavy at the table.

‘Ciri,’ Geralt nudges her gently. Had she dozed off? ‘Come. Off to bed.’

She lets him take her by the elbow and heads up the stairs, his heavy gate on the stairs behind her.

She lingers by the doorway. Downstairs, Jaskier is still playing.

‘Can I go with him?’ she asks as they arrive at their rooms. Geralt, looking for the key in his pocket, raises an eyebrow. ‘For protection.’

The muscles twitch in his jawline. ‘Jaskier will be fine.’

‘But-,’

‘He knows how to look after himself,’ Geralt assures. ‘He’ll be fine, Ciri. It’s only for six weeks.’

Six weeks.

‘But I could protect him, you know I’m stronger than him,’ she says. ‘You know how easy he gets into trouble!’

Geralt pauses at the door, looking like he’s biting back a grin. ‘I know you are,’ he replies. ‘But it’s not a good idea to get separated. Jaskier will find his way back. Unsurprisingly, danger seems to find him when our paths cross. Otherwise, he is sensible.’

This does little to calm her worries, but then Geralt gets his door open and says, ‘Goodnight, Ciri,’ and slips in. She sighs, feeling weary herself, and unlocks her own room. It’s small but the bed is plush and welcoming. A while later, in a drowsy haze, she hears the door beside her room open.

_Oh good, you’re still awake. I looked up and you were gone and I didn’t realise it was so late. Is Ciri in bed?_

_Yes. You’re being loud. Get in bed._

_Just let me wash my face._

_I have something for you._

_Oh, really? A gift?_

_Hm._

Jaskier’s laugh is brilliant.

_Really? What is it?_

A pause.

_Oh, Geralt._

_Put it on. I had it charmed; it’ll provide a little protection. I’ll be able to find you if you lose your way._

_How creepily romantic of you, Geralt. I love it, and I love you._

_Glad you like it._

_It makes me feel like I’m yours. Would you wear something of mine too?_

_Like what?_

xv

The entire conversation might have been a fever dream had it not been that the following morning, Jaskier comes down to breakfast wearing a thin silver chain with a small pendant resting on his chest. Ciri thinks she sees the etching of a wolf, but she can’t be sure as it disappears beneath his collar. Geralt steps in from the stable not to long after and they eat, pay and leave, riding until midday until they arrive at a fork in the road.

‘Well,’ Jaskier swallows nervously. ‘Take care then.’

Ciri hugs him tightly. ‘Good luck. I’m going to miss you.’

‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll be waiting for you with the prize money in Visima, and we’ll have a wonderful feast to celebrate.’ He pushes her hair behind her ears, cups her cheeks. ‘Look after Geralt for me, okay? You’re in charge.’

Geralt approaches with Jaskier’s things in his arms. Ciri turns to her white mare, scratching her nose in a fond goodbye.

‘Stay out of trouble, bard,’ Geralt says as he fixes the pack to the horse’s saddle.

‘I’ll do my best,’ he assures.

They hug briefly, more like a handshake than a hug, and Ciri’s about to say something because Jaskier certainly cannot leave without even _kissing_ Geralt goodbye, that certainly won’t do, and she’s done playing these games where they all think she doesn’t know. But then Jaskier’s hand dives into the pocket of his jacket and he hands Geralt something and mutters, ‘As you said last night.’

Geralt examines the small lute pick between his fingers. It’s threaded by a small piece of twine. Carefully, Geralt takes off his sword and wraps the pick around the sheath. A wordless conversation takes place between them. Jaskier smiles.

‘See you soon, I’m off to sing your praises,’ he says and then he urges the mare to the left of the fork. Ciri and Geralt head to the right.

The four weeks in Skellige are brutal. The weather is poor and the people poorer. Geralt curses Vesemir’s name when they meet the Priestesses of Freya and they ask him to take care of a rather pressing Siren problem.

‘God damn Sirens,’ Geralt mutters as he drops the head at the base of the temple. ‘No more games. Give me what is for Vesemir and I’ll get off this godforsaken rock.’

The Priestesses examine the Siren trophy with some disgust but eventually hand over a small box.

‘What is it?’ Ciri asks as they prepare _immediately_ to head back to the mainland. They have barely two weeks to meet Jaskier in Visima, lest he continues north without them, and Ciri knows they’re both keen to reunite with the bard. It’s early afternoon when they board the boat back to the mainland, only arriving in Hamm close to nightfall.

They’re halfway through their dinner when someone strums on a lute. Ciri curses as she nurses a sizeable headache.

‘Bed,’ Geralt says as he finishes off his ale hastily. ‘We’ll make for Visima tomorrow.’

A musician stands atop a small stage, dressed colourfully. ‘My first song is not my own,’ he grins. ‘But the winning composition of Master Bard, Jaskier, from the bardic tournament not two weeks ago. It’s the song everyone’s been singing on the streets of Beauclair since.’

Ciri looks to Geralt, a great grin on her face. ‘He won!’

xvi

They meet Jaskier in _the Old Dogge_. He’s dressed in a fine cerulean ensemble with a fresh haircut. 

‘There you are!’ he cries as Geralt and Ciri step into the tavern. Ciri launches into his arms and Jaskier spins her. ‘Ah, all this week I’ve been drowning myself in ale hoping to make the time speed up to be reunited with you again, but now here you are!’

Jaskier puts Ciri down as Geralt crowds close to him. Ciri watches as Jaskier smiles and raises his hand as if to caress Geralt’s cheek – _are they going to kiss? She hopes so –_ and Geralt’s gaze does the thing where it goes all soft. Jaskier’s hand passes Geralt’s ear and _keeps going_ to reach behind Geralt head entirely. He unloops the pick from Geralt’s scabbard.

‘You still have it!’ he announces joyously, hanging the pick between them. ‘Ah, I thought for sure you’d lose it.’

‘And yours?’

Then he opens his jerkin slightly to reveal the pendant. ‘Almost got it stolen by a mugger in a not-so-nice corner of Beauclair, but his hand got all burnt when he touched it. How strange, don’t you think?’

‘Very,’ agrees Geralt.

xvii

They all agree to go set out for Kaer Morhen and stay at least the winter, if not into the spring. Ciri looks forward to staying somewhere constant, especially if it means not sleeping on the road. Jaskier says Geralt feels it like a call home, something deep in his guts that niggles at him. As they walk the cold earth along the path to the mountains, Geralt tells them it’s been a few years since he’s been back, a few years since he’s seen another Witcher but if they’re alive, most of them will go back to Kaer Morhen.

Ciri rides the white mare and Geralt and Jaskier trail behind, talking lowly. _Talking_ may be too liberal a word as, as far as she can hear, Geralt is simply grunting responses to Jaskier’s full sentences, whipping Jaskier up into an argument that is almost his own making.

The argument peaks as they set up camp a few hundred metres off the road in a forest clearing.

Geralt is pitching the tent while Jaskier skins the rabbit, talking as the blade carves off the fur. ‘All I’m saying is we can go down to Rivia, you know, check out your neighbourhood. Then we have a straight run north, Vengerberg in the middle for a respite.’

‘Kaer Morhen is two weeks ride from Vengerberg,’ Geralt corrects. ‘And we don’t ride south to go north. We’re going through Redania and we’ll rest at Ard Carraigh.’

‘It’s _that far north?’_ Jaskier bristles.

‘Two further days from there.’

‘I thought Redania was your home,’ says Ciri.

Across the fire, his mouth twitches. ‘Yes, well, there’s a fondness in visiting every so often, I suppose. Normally I am contented just to look on from afar.’

‘We’ll have to pass through to get to Flotsam,’ Geralt says.

‘I know, I know,’ he mutters. ‘I’ll invest in a cloak with a hood. Geralt, we’ll dye your hair. No one will know it’s us.’

Ciri grins at the idea.

‘I’m not dying my hair. Write ahead.’

‘I most certainly will not!’

Geralt huffs. ‘Why pay coin when we can get a room for free?’

‘I’d rather pitch a tent than spend _any time_ staying with my family,’ he says. ‘I won’t entertain this for another second!’

He stands up like that’s the end of it. Ciri looks to Geralt who just gives her a loaded glance back as Jaskier gathers his things to bathe in the nearby creek.

It takes them a week’s hard riding to reach the foothills of the mountains. Flotsam rests between them, a city born on trade of the natural pass. It’s been an otherwise uneventful ride otherwise, but as soon as they pass a marker with the word LETTENHOVE etched into it, Jaskier says, ‘Surely, we can go around.’

‘We’re staying,’ Geralt says.

‘Geralt!’

The township is sizable, Ciri thinks, as they ride into the square. As usual, all eyes turn to them. Someone shouts, ‘Julian Alfred Pankratz, as I live and breathe!’

‘Oh no,’ mutters Jaskier. He shoots a pleading look to Geralt.

‘Seriously Geralt, if we turn around right now, I’ll do anything,’ he pauses. ’ _Anything_ you want me to.’

There’s a twinge of a smile as Geralt rides ahead. ‘You already do.’

Jaskier squeaks indignantly. ‘Geralt of _Rivia-,’_ he starts but then someone is pushing from the crowd, calling Jaskier’s name.

‘Julian! I thought that was you!’ says the man. He’s wearing fine clothing with a small dagger at his hip. His hair is dark like Jaskier’s, but littered with grey. He opens his arms wide as if expecting an embrace. ‘Cousin!’

‘Erm, yes, hello,’ Julian mutters awkwardly. Ciri hangs back with Geralt, who hasn’t dismounted Roach yet. ‘ _Ferrant_ , how lovely to see you.’

If Ferrant picks up on the unenthusiastic tone, he doesn’t respond in-kind. ‘You should have written ahead!’ he says joyously. ‘No matter, you know we always have room for you and your,’ finally, Ferrant’s gaze settles on them. ‘Um, travelling companions.’

‘Of course,’ Jaskier mutters. ‘This is Geralt of Rivia-,’

‘The Witcher!’ Ferrant says. ‘You have not been home in so long, cousin, but your songs make their way to us, so it feels like you’re always around.’

Jaskier doesn’t perk up the compliment like he usually would, Ciri notices. ‘Ah, yes, of course. And this is Fiona, his daughter.’ It’s an easy lie. They look similar enough.

‘My lady!’ Ferrant smiles. ‘Come. You must be tired and the horses will need watering. We’ll have a feast tonight, catch up on old times.’

Ferrant leads the way, and Ciri doesn’t miss the withering look Jaskier shoots Geralt as they are led to Ferrant’s home. Ciri expects a modest house, but suddenly the township falls away and a large castle looms. A drawbridge lowers.

‘Is… Jaskier rich?’ she looks at Geralt apprehensively.

‘No,’ Geralt mutters as they’re led through the castle gates. ‘Definitely not.’

‘Then what-,’ she looks at the castle around them, ‘Is all this?’

‘I have no idea,’

A stableboy takes the horses as Ferrant shows them to their quarters: three well-sized rooms.

‘I’ll take my leave,’ says Ferrant graciously. ‘Bathe, rest. I have a feast to prepare.’

Immediately, Geralt crowds Jaskier.

‘Explain,’ he demands.

‘Well, you see,’ Jaskier squirms under Geralt’s hard gaze. ‘My… father, well, he’s the Viscount. Of Lettenhove. And my cousin, Ferrant, whom you’ve just met is the, um, Royal Instigator. For the King.’

Geralt massages the bridge of his nose. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Well, I _tried_ but you wouldn’t see reason. Now you understand why I said we should have just passed through Rivia!’ Jaskier raises his hands in exasperation. ‘Now we must go through this whole song and _dance,_ and yes, there will probably be dancing. The only thing my cousin loves more than stringing up a criminal is a jig.’

Geralt sighs, but Ciri’s not sure exactly what’s the problem. They’ve been travelling for three days, now she has a bed, a bath, good food and apparently there will be a party in honour of Jaskier’s return.

‘And don’t even start on my mother while I’m not married yet,’ he mutters. ‘And prepared to be interrogated within an inch of your life by my sisters-,’

‘ _Sisters?_ ’ Ciri repeats.

‘Three of them, to be exact,’ Jaskier helpfully supplies. ‘And these walls are thinner than they seem Geralt, so don’t even think we’re going to-,’

Jaskier cuts himself off. Ciri stifles the urge to giggle. 

‘Right,’ he huffs and turns on his heel, heading into his bedroom. ‘The bath water is warming. If we are to stay here, then I’ll at least have to make myself presentable. You should both do the same.’

The walls are, indeed, very thin.

_It’s really not to late to leave, Geralt. The ground may be cold to sleep on, but it’s a kind mistress compared to the night we’re about to have!_

_Get in the bath, Jaskier._

_Seriously,_ a muffled noise. She hears clothing drop to the floor. _You don’t know my family._

_Didn’t even know you had a family._

_Really? Thought I was abandoned at birth? Oh sorry, touchy subject._

Water sloshes in the tub.

_Free bed. Free bath. Free food._

_Nothing in this world is free Geralt. We will suffer my family in payment._

_You’ll suffer mine for winter._

_I thought Witchers had no family._

_They don’t. But they are the closest I have, I suppose – if they are still alive._

_And you have us – we’re you’re family too._

A pause.

_Didn’t think I’d have one. Didn’t need one._

And then he says something Ciri can’t hear, though her ear is almost pressed against the wood of the door and Jaskier cries, ‘Ah Geralt, you’re so romantic!’

She peels away from the door with a shake of her head and goes to get changed.

Jaskier’s mother is an older plump woman, who kisses her son on both cheeks when he enters the dining hall. A large pig is roasting on the spit. It smells divine.

‘Mama, this is Geralt, the Witcher, and Fiona, his daughter,’ Jaskier says. Ciri wonders if it makes sense to introduce them like that; she knows that Witcher’s cannot have children. Does it create more suspicion than assurance? She’s unsure.

Geralt, however, is the picture of civility. He looks uncomfortable stuffed into his silks and cottons, swords not strapped to his body, but Ciri assumes he’s got a dagger stashed somewhere. His light hair is clean and brushed so it falls softly around his shoulders.

‘Pleasure, Viscountess,’ he says warmly. Ciri gives a small curtsey.

Jaskier takes Geralt by the arm. ‘Very well done,’ he purrs as they sit down.

They’re introduced to people throughout the night: Jaskier’s sisters, Agata, Nadia and Halina, the Viscount, and then, of course, Ferrant asks Jaskier to perform and Ciri encourages him to do so.

‘All right,’ Jaskier accepts eventually when he’s eaten and drunk his fill. He returns to get his lute, and that’s when Jaskier’s sisters descend on them.

Nadia is the leader of the three; beautiful with doe-like eyes the same cornflower blue and long dark hair. Her dress is cut revealingly low and Ciri watches as Geralt’s eyes slowly slip south as she leans forward.

‘My brother sings of your conquests,’ she purrs gently. Geralt swallows his mouthful of pork and Ciri takes the moment of distraction to swipe a potato from his plate and his half-drunk stein of ale. ‘But I must admit, he doesn’t do you justice to your dashing looks.’

‘Told him I’d cut his balls off if he did,’ Geralt mutters and reaches for his ale, only to find it’s not there. ‘ _Child_.’

Ciri takes her final mouthful before Geralt snatches back his stein, empty. With a huff, he gets up from the table to find another glass. Nadia watches him go, a forlorn look in his eye. Across the room, Jaskier is starting on a fast-paced jig and Ferrant pulls Halina onto the dancefloor.

‘So, child, your father-,’

‘Fathers,’ Ciri corrects. There’s a moment of silence where Ciri thinks that Nadia believes she misheard. ‘You must specify which, seeing as one is your brother.’

Nadia swallows thickly, her eyes glancing across to Jaskier. ‘I see.’

Geralt comes back a bit later, a fresh stein in his hand. He sits beside her. ‘The stable boy has been staring at you for the last ten minutes.’

‘I know,’ she glowers. ‘The same look Nadia gave you.’

Geralt laughs at this. ‘I thought you would chase her off.’

Ciri looks over to the stable boy. Geralt nudges her gently.

‘Go.’

xviii

The mountains loom but provide no shelter from the freezing wind that whips down the passage and assaults their faces. Jaskier trudges through the deep snow, looking back every now and then to ensure Ciri’s keeping up. Ahead, Geralt leads the way with Roach walking beside him. Suddenly, he stops.

‘Melitele’s tits, Geralt, are we there yet?’ Jaskier cries over the howling wind. Ciri crowds by his side, seeking his warmth and feels his arm around her shoulders.

Geralt looks around, whistles through his thumb and forefinger and waits.

‘Geralt!’ Jaskier calls again. ‘Do you have any idea where you’re going? Fuck, I can’t feel my toes.’

‘I’m cold,’ Ciri complains.

Geralt stalks forward a few more paces, and whistles again. Ciri feels her heart sink. What if there’s no one at Kaer Morhen to receive the letter? What if they don’t want to let them in? She’s about to tell Geralt so when she hears the protesting groan of metal-on-metal.

‘Come on, not far,’ Geralt grits out and they continue through a bend in the road, and suddenly a gate comes into view. The wind dies down. Ciri can see a man wearing black waiting at the open gate.

‘Geralt! You old fuck!’ Laughter. ‘You’re late!’

‘Nice to see you too, Lambert,’ Geralt grins and they embrace briefly. ‘This is Jaskier, the bard, and Ciri.’

‘The child surprise,’ Lambert finishes with a sly grin. ‘Right, come on, there’s time for introductions later. You look like your dick’s about to fall off from frostbite.’

They follow Lambert into the compound. Ciri sticks close to Jaskier as Geralt and Lambert tie-up Roach. It’s not as cold in the compound, though snow drifts down gently from the darkened sky. Eventually, Geralt and Lambert lead them through a maze of stone staircases and halls.

‘Eskel?’ Geralt asks.

‘Got here last week,’ Lambert replies. ‘He’s hunting. Vesemir is locked in his study, as usual. Working on something. Who the fuck knows what?’

Ciri jumps as they walk past a fireplace and Lambert makes it spark to life.

‘What curious creatures you’ve brought back with you,’ Lambert smiles, his bronze gaze wolfish as it dances over Jaskier and Ciri. ‘These are your rooms. Prepared as requested.’

Ciri takes note of three things as she’s shown to her room and told to get some rest – that the bed is wonderful and plush, and _warm_ , the beautiful and vast view of the mountains from her window, and the soft words of Geralt and Jaskier next door muffled by the stone wall.

\--

‘Ciri.’ There’s a hand on her forehead. She wakes, slowly. It’s warm and dark. Jaskier is sitting on her bedside, dressed and well-rested. Slowly, reality comes back to her. ‘Come on, it’s almost dinner time.’

‘I slept all afternoon?’

‘You weren’t the only one,’ Jaskier chuckles. ‘Geralt passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.’

Ciri rolls out of bed, feeling groggy, and washes her face before following Jaskier down to the kitchen. Raucous of laughter and the scent of roasted meat drift up from below. The Witchers are drinking ale while a deer cooks over the flame. Ciri feels her stomach cramp, hungry. There’s a basket of bread rolls, a bowl of boiled potatoes, carrots, and beets. Jaskier touches between her shoulder blades reassuringly.

‘So, Geralt’ Lambert says as they sit down to eat. ‘You’ve bought quite the group this winter. Not quite the lone wolf the songs make you out to be.’

‘Lambert,’ Vesemir says lowly. ‘Behave.’

‘Yes, we have esteemed company,’ Eskel continues.

Lambert grins across the table at Geralt, who glowers back. Jaskier is silent beside him, tucking into his soup.

‘Ciri,’ Vesemir pulls her attention. ‘Perhaps you can join me in the courtyard tomorrow. Geralt tells us you’ve got quite the lungs on you.’

‘Do you know why?’ she asks.

Vesemir smiles kindly. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve been in our libraries ever since I heard about you, but I’ve yet to find anything.’

‘Ciri needs training,’ Geralt says. ‘Combat training. Control training.’

‘Combat?’ Jaskier squeaks quietly.

‘Aye, she can learn what she wants while she’s here,’ Vesemir nods.

Ciri buzzes with excitement. Finally, she’s going to be taught how to punch and kick and, ‘Will you teach me how to use a sword?’

‘Oh Melitele, help me,’ Jaskier groans.

Geralt smirks over the lip of his stein.

xix

Lambert gives her a wooden sword and Ciri tests its weight in her palm. A few metres away, near a storage shed, Geralt watches with his arms over his chest.

‘Sword up, Ciri,’ Lambert says.

Ciri takes the position.

Only to be immediately knocked to the ground when Lambert’s foot sweeps under hers.

‘That’s not fair,’ she groans.

‘First lesson, girl, fighting isn’t fair,’ he says. ‘Geralt may be easy on you, but I won’t be.’

Geralt isn’t easy on her _at all_ , she thinks, but she’s not about to tell Lambert that.

They train for most of the afternoon until Ciri is dirty and sweaty and hungry and Geralt says, ‘That’s enough.’

‘Come on, that was just the warm-up,’ Lambert protests.

Geralt grabs a stray sword from the armoury fixed to the wall and Ciri scampers away. The grin on Lambert’s face is absolutely feral.

‘Volunteering yourself, then?’ Lambert grins as he paces around Geralt.

Geralt launches, but Lambert dodges the swing easily. Ciri watches from the corner as Jaskier comes down the stairs to join her.

‘What foolishness are they up to now?’ he mutters but joins her on the log seat to watch.

‘Getting slow, Geralt?’ taunts Lambert. Their swords clash. Geralt lands a punch on Lambert’s jawline. Not hard enough to break, but just enough to make him stumble backwards.

They fight for another hour. Jaskier yawns and goes back inside to continue composing, but Ciri stays, watching enraptured as the Witcher’s fight, goad, parry, dodge, time after time. When both of them are tired, they break with a small laugh.

‘Ciri, come. To the baths,’ Lambert says.

They travel deep into the keep until they come to a room carved into the side of the mountain with two thermal hot springs. The air is damp and warm. Geralt points her to a bath behind a small screen, as the other men meet in the larger bath.

Ciri strips down, sinks into the murky water and leans back. Over the splashing of the water, she can hear Geralt and Lambert on the other side of the room.

_That kid’s got a lot of fire in her._

_As I told you._

_And the bard?_

_What about him?_

_Oh, don’t play stupid with me, Geralt. You think I didn’t feel that enchanted amulet fucking loaded with spells the moment you walked through the gate._

_Gets himself into trouble._

_Seems like a lot of effort for an ordinary bard._

_He’s not an ordinary bard. Won the Bardic competition twice._

It’s Lambert’s turn to groan.

_All I’m saying is that these walls are thin and while Vesemir’s hearing may not be what it used to be, there’s nothing wrong with mine. Just tell your bard to stop flaunting his vocal range in the late hours of the night._

_Lambert._

_Or gag him. I don’t know what you two are into._

Later, as Jaskier prepares to sing after dinner, Ciri watches Geralt turn as red as the beet soup they had for dinner as Jaskier runs through the scales.

xx

Vesemir is making her read these huge dusty old tomes in the library. Sometimes he falls asleep and Ciri can escape into the courtyard to find Eskel or Lambert, or sometimes Jaskier, and together they’ll practice swordplay, or archery or simply compose a funny limerick. But she’s careful not to run into Geralt. He’s strangely strict about her studies with Vesemir and has told the old man, on more than one occasion, not to fall asleep while tutoring her.

The sound of Jaskier’s lute in the courtyard and his gentle, melodic voice, make Vesemir look up from his tome. Ciri follows him to the window, thinking he’s about to close it so they can focus, when, curiously, he peers out into the courtyard. Ciri does the same, craning her body. She can see Jaskier reclining on a pile of hay, lute in hand. Geralt walks past him to pull arrows out of a dummy and as he does so, let’s his fingers ghost over the crown of Jaskier’s head.

Vesemir sighs and leans back from the window.

‘Geralt has always been a perplexing man,’ Vesemir states. ‘I’m pleased he’s found someone he can be himself around.’

Ciri’s not sure that’s _entirely true_ by the way the two of them have been skirting around her for the last year, but she’s not about to tell Vesemir that.

The old man regards her seriously. ‘And I’m glad they found you,’ he says. ‘Come, back to work.

xxi

Spring comes to Kaer Morhen slowly. Ciri doesn’t want to leave, and Geralt doesn’t suggest it until the snow from the mountains melt. Eskel leaves the day before, riding towards Vengerberg.

‘Goodbye, little wolf cub,’ Eskel smiles as he saddles up his horse. ‘Watch over Geralt for us. See you next year, unless our Paths cross beforehand.’

She’s sad to watch Eskel go; they’d spend hours in the studies practising signs and magic, trying to harness the strength of Ciri’s power. And while they definitely haven’t mastered it, she understands her limits better. Under Lambert, her swordplay has increased dramatically, but not to the point that Geralt or Lambert will let her wield a _real_ sword. Maybe next year.

They stop in Ard Carraigh and Jaskier sings for coin and a room. The concert goes well. It’s spring and more people are out, defrosted from the chill of winter, and music flows easily into the early morning, as does the ale. Ciri goes to bed, leaving Geralt and Jaskier downstairs. It’s only half of an hour later when he descends into the revelry once again to get a glass of water from the rainwater tank outside when she sees two figures pressed against each other in the stairwell. It’s not an unusual sight, except that it’s clearly Jaskier and Geralt tied up in each other. Geralt’s mouth is on Jaskier’s neck, his hands in his doublet.

Ciri stands at the top of the stairs. _Finally._

Geralt is obviously drunk as he rumbles into Jaskier’s skin, pulling at his doublet. A button pops. Jaskier laughs gently, eyes sliding up towards their room.

‘Geralt, come on, not a few more steps,’ he slurs. ‘Oh shit.’

Jaskier nudges Geralt off him. ‘Geralt. Geralt. Your child of surprise is watching us!’

Geralt pauses his kisses, glances up to Ciri and laughs gently before pulling Jaskier’s face back towards him.

‘She knows.’

‘What?’ Jaskier splutters, reeling back as Geralt tries to kiss him again. ‘What do you mean she knows? How long have you known that she knows? Why didn’t I know that you know that she knows?’

Geralt frowns, struggling to keep up. Ciri huffs, descending the stairs and pushing past them.

‘Of course, I know!’ she says. Neither Jaskier or Geralt have made an effort to untangle from each other. ‘Now that it’s out in the open, in the most respectful way possible – get a room and keep it down.’

Geralt laughs as Ciri trudges down to the Inn to get a glass of water.

‘Geralt!’ she hears Jaskier protest, but then the door to their room closes.

\---

‘So,’ Jaskier says that morning at breakfast. ‘You _know_.’

Geralt rolls his eyes at the theatrics. ‘Julian.’

Ciri swallows a piece of bread. ‘I think most people know.’

‘Most people?’ Jaskier repeats nervously and glances at Geralt.

‘Yennefer knows,’ Ciri says. ‘Lambert definitely knows, I heard him tease Geralt at Kaer Morhen. Eskel. Vesemir.And definitely your sister Nadia knows because I told her off for coming onto Geralt while you were singing. Oh and that Innkeeper at Brugge that one time _definitely_ knew. I feel like I’m the _last to know_.’

Jaskier sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘To be honest, it’s not like it was a _secret_ , it just took us a while to get here, I suppose it was always difficult to describe.’

‘You had enough on your plate, Ciri,’ Geralt helps. ‘Than to consider our problems.’

‘But it’s not a problem,’ Ciri emphasises. ‘It’s nice that my dads are in love.’

‘Yes, well, at least-,’ Jaskier pauses, chokes a little. ‘ _Dads_?’

‘ _Love_?’ repeats Geralt, only to receive an elbow in the ribs from Jaskier. He catches it with a chuckle and shoves the other man off.

‘Come on,’ he stands and grabs their saddlebags. ‘We need to get going, the sun is at half-morning already.’

Jaskier gives Geralt a withering look that isn’t really that withering. ‘Where to now?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. Thank you so much for reading! This was an incredible response.  
> This wasn't beta'd so forgive the spelling mistakes and typos.  
> Stay well everyone x


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